The Rapture of a Finished Day
by winter156
Summary: In which Myka receives a lot of firsts from Helena. On-going, interconnected ficlets spanning Myka and Helena's relationship from beginning to present.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: None of the characters belong to me

A/N: This is a short little scene that popped into my head. I wrote down for IDF, since time didn't permit me to make a larger contribution. It takes place sometime after S2E7 but before S2E9; the early days when Myka and Helena had just met.

* * *

**The Rapture of a Finished Day**

Myka hated the Bed & Breakfast sometimes. Privacy was nonexistent, too many people in too close proximity to one another. It could get suffocating. Moving silently through the still inn, the agent made her way to the back porch.

She relaxed as she stepped out into the quiet night. Breathing in the cool night air, she reveled in the momentary solitude darkness afforded her. Nimbly climbing the railing and letting her feet dangle off the side, Myka looked up at the night sky still amazed at all the stars she could see. It reminded her of home and a time when her life was a lot less complicated.

"Oh good," Myka almost fell backward in her haste to turn to the disembodied voice coming from a shadowed corner of the porch, "I thought you would never get here." Heart beating hard against her chest, Myka felt adrenaline rush her system lighting her entire body into a hyper alert state. "I think I fell asleep for a moment," the sleep roughened voice continued, sounding awfully familiar to Myka's ears.

The intruder moved forward, stepping into the abundant moonlight. Myka gasped. "Helena," she squeaked wildly looking around to make sure they were actually alone. She half expected Artie, Pete, or even Claudia to burst through the door and find them together. "What are you doing here?" Myka's voice was an octave higher than usual but she was modulating it to a fierce whisper, which made her voice sound strangled.

Helena looked at her oddly, "Are you quite alright, darling?"

Myka's green eyes widened. She pressed a finger to her lips letting out a sharp _shh_ trying to shush the other woman, "Not so loud."

"Oh bugger," Helena mumbled tripping over her own feet before catching herself. "Don't worry," she slurred slightly moving closer to Myka, "they're all asleep."

The agent stepped back to lean her hip against the railing she had been sitting on. Crossing her arms over her chest, Myka narrowed green eyes at the writer, assessing her with a shrewd once over, "Are you drunk?" Her voice went high at the end, expressing her incredulity at Helena's audaciousness coming to the Bed & Breakfast without her full faculties.

Now leaning against the railing next to Myka and facing the agent's profile, Helena's voice was much quieter cognizant of the fact that there were people sleeping not far from them, "I may be slightly inebriated."

"How did you even buy alcohol?" Myka asked shaking her head at the woman. "It's not like you have money."

Helena let out an affronted snort, "I'll have you know that men and women still buy other people drinks in a bar."

"Univille has a bar," the agent sounded surprised. "Wait," Myka looked into slightly glazed brown eyes, "what did you do for those drinks?"

"Nothing untoward," now Helena really sounded offended, "I am a lady." _And snooty_, Myka thought a smile playing over her lips. She did not understand how that was endearing at all, but she felt insidious affection warming her chest.

"As opposed to popular belief," she pointed a sloppy glare in Myka's direction, "my presence can rouse other things beside suspicion."

The agent had to choke back a laugh at the wording, "I'm certain you rouse plenty of things, Helena."

Brown eyes narrowed, the writer trying to figure out if she was being mocked. Unable to discern the tone and innocent look on the agent's face Helena gave up but sniffed haughtily just in case. Myka's smile widened. She turned her hip, fully facing the writer; no longer pretending she was not interested in her presence.

"My face does seem to get its share of attention," Helena explained unprompted, "At least, enough for free drinks."

"It is a pretty face," Myka assured, jade eyes warm with something more than simple affection as they caressed the beautiful face in front of her.

"It is. I'm glad you noticed," Helena said with aplomb.

Myka rolled her eyes and let out a small chuckle.

"And the accent seems to do wonders, as well," the writer continued, slightly mystified that a difference in speech pattern garnered so much attention.

"Well, yes," Myka felt obliged to explain, "that's because it's sexy."

Something like realization dawned on the writer's face. "You realize you just said by virtue of my place of birth, I am effortlessly sexy," the awe in her voice was completely put on.

Myka snorted in amusement, "Like you needed me to tell you something you most definitely already knew."

"It is nice when I hear it so directly," Helena's lips quirked into a smile reflexively as she watched Myka's lips curve into a pretty grin. Shifting a bit more into the agent's personal space, the writer traced the face across from hers with a gentle gaze. "You have a beautiful smile," she told Myka sincerely, "and beautiful eyes," brown eyes roamed over the whole of the agent, "and beautiful everything really."

Myka blushed in pleasure at the words, before quickly becoming self-conscious. She was wearing tiny shorts and a tight tank top, with little else underneath. "Thank you," she said earnestly, blush deepening at Helena's continued perusal. Gallant even while drunk, brown eyes stayed on Myka's face once she noticed the agent's discomfort.

Clearing her throat, Myka returned to an earlier query, "What are you doing here, Helena?"

Sad eyes looked up at her, "I missed you." Apparently, the writer was also an honest drunk.

The words made Myka's heart miss a beat, which it quickly compensated for by thundering to break neck speed the next moment. Feeling lightheaded, the agent shook her head, "You shouldn't have risked coming here."

"I couldn't help myself," Helena stepped closer still, leaving mere inches between their bodies, "I had to see you." Delicate fingers reached to trace the agent's lips. Myka allowed it and shuddered at the touch. She canted her head into the palm of Helena's hand as the writer moved to cup her cheek. Green gaze locking with brown, Myka momentarily wondered where all the cool air had gone, she was practically burning up.

Helena closed the distance between their bodies, the hand not on Myka's face wrapping around her waist pulling them tightly together. The agent automatically wrapped her arms around slim shoulder, the writer at the perfect height to do so because her boots put her on eye level with a barefoot Myka. Somewhere in the shift, the hand Helena had on her face had shifted the back of her neck sending delicious tingles down the agent's spine.

Their noses brushed. They breathed each other in.

"You're drunk, Helena," Myka pointed out, not really protesting just stating the obvious.

"Only slightly," Helena reassured, eyes veering to lips she was aching to taste.

"You won't remember this," Myka breathed tilting closer to the writer's lips.

"I won't be able to forget," Helena promised.

Myka pressed their lips together. Arms tightened, bringing them impossibly closer. Helena's mouth was soft and supple under the agent's insistent assault. Opening her lips to deepen their contact, Myka swiped the writer's lips with her tongue; the lovely mouth yielded to her entreaty for entrance. The agent ventured her tongue into a warm mouth. She groaned as their tongues gently glided over each other. Helena tasted of peppermint and chocolate.

One kiss continued into the next, until the women were clutching each other desperately; desire morphing into need. Knowing now was neither the time nor place to do anything about it, they let the kisses peter out naturally. Their foreheads pressed and breathing labored when they finally stopped.

Feeling slightly drunk herself now, Myka kept a firm hold on Helena needing the support. Once her knees felt like they could hold her weight, the agent stopped clinging so desperately to the writer. After an interminable moment, Helena sighed and began to disengage from the embrace. "I must go," she whispered despondently. Myka nodded but clasped the writer's hands as she fully pulled out of the embrace; she was loath to let her go.

Raising the hands clutching hers to her lips, Helena gently kissed the knuckles on each hand. Looking up through her lashes at the agent, Helena smiled, "We will see each other again. Soon. I promise." Nodding mutely, not doubting the writer's word for a second, Myka released her and let her walk away. Again.

Watching Helena's figure disappear into the darkness, Myka shook her head at herself. Her lips still tingled and her hands itched at the absence of the writer. Gripping the rail tightly to keep from following after the woman, the agent stared hard into the darkness. "That woman will be your ruin, Myka Bering," she whispered to herself with certainty, unsure if the fact thrilled or terrified her.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Another ficlet connecting to my previous one. This one following S2E8. This works to break my writers block so I think I will continue them when time permits.

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**In My Heart There Stirs A Quiet Pain**

"We really must stop meeting like this," Helena spoke to the woman she was half carrying to her room.

"Hey," Myka protested, "you were the one that was drunk last time."

"Not nearly as drunk as you are now," Helena tried not to snap at the agent, her hurt over the kiss she had witnessed still smarting.

"I was drowning my sorrows," Myka said petulantly, "Your definition of soon leaves much to be desired."

"You seemed to find a suitable distraction in my absence," the pain in the writer's voice slightly sobered Myka up.

"That was a stupid mistake," Myka admitted softly pulling out the keycard to her room and attempting to insert it into the tiny slot, "I was proving that I was different than the nerdy, awkward kid I was in high school; that I could have the popular jock."

Helena took the card and silently opened the door. Flicking the lights on, she closed the door behind them before gently depositing Myka on the nearest chair. She knelt and divested Myka of the heels that were probably killing her feet. Task complete, she sat back and sighed looking up at the contrite woman above her, "You have nothing to prove to anyone. You are a strong, intelligent, beautiful woman that does more in a day's work than some of these people will do in an entire lifetime."

"I'm sorry," Myka reached down to tuck a stray lock of hair behind Helena's ear.

The inventor closed her eyes at the sensation of fingers lightly tracing her forehead and ear, "It is mostly my pride that is injured. That you would replace me with that bulky louse offends my sensibilities. I will get over it."

"Only your pride," Myka asked lightly, "not your heart?"

"One would have to have a heart in order for it to be injured," Helena said self deprecatingly, "My pride is therefore the next best thing."

"You have a heart," Myka protested, her fingers now tracing the writer's cheek and jaw, "I saw it when you saved me and when you saved Claudia."

"Moments that only serve in my ultimate goal," Helena said softly as if confiding some great secret, "my heart is frozen over, Myka." She kissed the fingers that were now tracing her lips, "Do not trust me. I will betray you."

"Your actions say differently," Myka reminded the inventor, "they scream of your trustworthiness."

"But you do not know my motives," Helena rebutted, needing someone to stop her before she fell headlong into madness, "I am using you. I am evil."

"Why tell me then? Why not simply continue to use me?" Myka's hand lowered to cup Helena's neck, her thumb rubbing the pulse point underneath it.

"So you can stop me," the writer swallowed thickly, her breath escaping in a quiet gasp as Myka's thumb traced her throat chin to clavicle before settling back over her carotid artery. She could feel her heart explode into a frantic beat as the pressure of Myka's thumb increased. The pressure sent a direct jolt to her center. Desire flooded her blood stream. The writer's nostrils flared, air entering and leaving roughly through her nose. Helena was not one for power games, but looking up into glazed green eyes she knew she would gladly surrender herself to the siren poised above her. She was already enthralled by the lure of the woman; she did not want to escape.

"I will save you," Myka watched with rapt attention, fascinated at the thrill that ran through her at Helena's reaction of her fingers on her neck. The wash of heat as she pressed a tiny bit harder shocked her. Needing to be closer to this tempting woman, Myka bent down as she slid her hand to the back of the writer's neck and pulled her up, "I will show you that you still have a heart."

Their lips met with bruising force as a heady rush of desire enveloped them. Teeth clashed and noses bumped clumsily as their tongues tasted each other. They stood without disconnecting and moved inelegantly to the bed. Hands gripped and groped needing to feel.

Myka roughly pulled at the coat Helena was wearing, tossing it carelessly when she managed to get it off. Her fingers quickly worked the buttons of the writer's shirt, with apt deft for someone as drunk as she was. Not one to stay behind, Helena unzipped Myka and divested her of the cocktail dress she was wearing. That left the agent gloriously half naked in only black lace panties; Helena stared heat coming off her in waves.

Neither was exactly sure how they ended up on the bed, but neither had the sense of mind or desire to complain. This activity was easier horizontal than vertical. Helena, still mostly dressed, had ended up on top, much to her delight. She kissed a trail up and down Myka's throat as the agent hand's roamed on the inside of her unbuttoned shirt. She was immensely enjoying the sounds of pleasure coming from the younger woman's mouth.

Moving her mouth to capture Myka's lovely lips in another breathtaking kiss, Helena's mind registered the taste of vodka and strawberries. The writer stiffened and stopped. Myka's insistent hands and tongue did not stop even as Helena called her name. The inventor finally wrapped the agent in a tight hug to hold her still, "Myka, we must stop."

"Why?" Came the confused query.

"You are very drunk," Helena said into the ear closest to her mouth, "and I will not take advantage of that."

"I thought chivalry was dead," Myka panted trying to squirm out of the firm hold.

"It may be dead in the people of this day and age," Helena said between gulps of air, Myka was literally rubbing against her, "but I have never taken advantage of a woman, and I do not intend to begin tonight."

"Have you had practice with women then?" Myka asked flippantly, her green eyes tracking the writer's movements as she released her and stood.

"Some," Helena admitted buttoning herself up.

"Now I know what you felt like when I kissed what's-his-name except for the small fact that I didn't sleep with him," Myka pouted, "I am madly jealous."

"There's no need to be," Helena kissed the agent's forehead, "It was over a hundred years ago. All my lovers are long dead. You have no competition."

The information slightly mollified the agent. "Do you have to go?" Hopeful eyes turned to look at the writer hastily pulling herself together. "We don't have to do anything."

"I'm afraid resisting you for the next eight hours would strain even my considerable will. I must go," Helena hated to leave, "It would not due for you to wake up in the morning and realize you made another stupid mistake."

Myka sat up in the bed as she watched Helena don her coat. "You would never be a stupid mistake," she said softly with absolute conviction.

"Yes, well," Helena smiled then cleared her throat at the unexpected and uncommon warmth that gripped her chest, "in either case, I would like you to remember the experience."

"What makes you think I'm so drunk I won't remember?" Myka raised an eyebrow to punctuate her question.

"I had to carry you up here from the bar," Helena reminded, raising both eyebrows to emphasize her answer.

"Ah," Myka looked sheepish, "I forgot about that."

Helena sat on the edge of the bed. She leaned in and gave Myka a chaste kiss on the lips. "Good night, Myka," she whispered as she pulled back, her eyes captured by green.

"Good night," came the breathless response.

Helena stood and did not look down at the half naked body laying on the bed; if she did, she would never walk out the door. The writer made a swift exit, closing the door firmly behind her before slumping against it. Want still pounded through her. Want of more than Myka's body. She wanted from the agent more than she had ever wanted from anyone: mind, body and soul. _That woman will be your ruin, Helena Wells_, the thought haunted her as she walked away from the room; it resonated with certainty that thrilled and terrified her in equal measure.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: This follows S2E9.

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**My Most Valuable Mistakes**

Darkness pressed gently against the edges of light illuminating the dining room where Myka and Helena sat in companionable silence. The soft sounds of night filtered through the open windows: the crickets' discordant symphony, the wind rustling grass and leaves, the hum of night coming to life. The bubble of light accompanied with the sounds of night created an intimate setting that went undisturbed. The minutes passed with an unspoken conversation whirling around them as they leisurely sipped their tea (at Helena's insistence that tea was preferred over coffee and Myka's acquiescence of the preference).

With the other occupants of the Bed and Breakfast safely sequestered in their own rooms, the women felt free to indulge (for a moment) in the unnamed connection present between them. Their eyes locked over the rims of their cups communicating warmth, affection, desire and something else lingering in the periphery that neither was willing to yet acknowledge.

Myka pushed her empty cup aside and reached across the table to the hand Helena had laid on the table top. She let her fingertips brush the back of the writer's hand before taking the hand in hers. It was soft, warm and delicate. Myka unconsciously rubbed circles with her thumb marveling at the tingles running up her arm at the innocent touch. Looking up into brown eyes, she was pleased to note that Helena seemed to be having the same reaction. Smiling she tilted her head in a come-with-me motion as she stood. The writer shrugged and readily followed the young woman who was still holding her hand. The agent walked them to the porch, quietly closing the door behind them.

"It is nice not to have to sneak around," Helena whispered sardonically into Myka's ear. The comment received no rebuttal for a moment as the agent's brain short-circuited at the writer's proximity. Helena had pressed herself to Myka's side, her mouth hovering over the agent's ear.

The words, and tone, finally registering in her brain, the agent took a shuddering breath and shot the writer a small smile. "We aren't sneaking around," Myka rolled her eyes, "we're just being mindful of the fact that everyone else is asleep."

"How thoughtful of us to be so accommodating," the writer had not moved, she was enjoying the reactions she was creating in the young woman by mere proximity.

"Come on," Myka grunted pulling Helena by the hand she still held.

"Lead on Macduff," the writer smirked, already knowing what the agent was going to say.

"That's an often misquoted phrase," Myka automatically corrected, walking hand in hand with Helena down the moonlit path just off the side of the inn. "In the play, Macduff challenges Macbeth to yield. Macbeth responds with a vehement speech that he ends, more or less, with saying 'Lay on, Macduff.'"

"I then amend my earlier statement and say: Lay on, Bering! And damn'd be her that first cries, 'Hold, enough!'" Myka turned to her, eyes glowing in the light of the moon, their hands still clasped together. They had stopped about a hundred yards from the Bed and Breakfast, but it could have well been a thousand miles. The meadow they were standing in was completely surrounded by a leafy copse of trees, secluding them in their own private sanctuary.

"Are we in a battle then?" Myka asked, green eyes searching for some sign on the writer's face of where the conversation was heading.

"Life is war," Helena replied rather seriously, eyes flitting away to the tree line, "we are always in battle."

"So, I should fight aggressively to win," Myka's eyes continued to search the writer's face, "What am I fighting for?"

"Whatever you wish," Helena replied broadly not sure she wanted to narrow down the field for Myka, "To the victor go the spoils."

The agent snaked her free arm around the writer and pulled her flush against her body, thrilling at the surprised gasp that escaped Helena's mouth. "Is that so?" Myka asked smiling widely at the face now an inch from her own. Her eyes flickered to the writer's lips, head already closing the scant distance between them. The kiss was unhurried (like the night thus far), exploratory, arousing (but not distracting), a conversation without words. "Not all life is war, Helena," the young woman pressed her lips once more onto the writer's slightly open mouth before pulling her deeper into the meadow.

They walked a few more yards to a hammock suspended on a wooden frame in the middle of the meadow. Myka finally released Helena's hand, automatically laying down and relaxing into the hammock. In the midst of a meadow, surrounded by trees, night pressing gently around them, the young woman felt the tension of the everyday grind loosen. She smiled up at the writer, "Join me. The view is great from here."

"The view is not so bad from where I'm standing," Helena drawled pulling Myka's eyes from the stars to look at what the writer was observing. The agent's heart missed a beat. Helena was looking at her with desire, affection, and something else, something strong and deep (visible even in the cover of darkness).

"Are we going to talk about this?" Myka's hand made a motion that encompassed them both.

"Not yet," Helena said turning to the spectacular view of the night sky, "there is magic in things unnamed."

Myka's eyes mapped Helena's profile, much of which was in shadow, the moon only illuminating slender ribbons across the planes of her face. She looked like magic: ethereal, elusive but real in a way that defied definition. Some little explosion went off in Myka's heart making her heart accelerate before it slowed down again, like a rush of adrenaline hitting the bloodstream. Except, the jolt released something heavier, denser than a hot rush of desire or want. What was pumping through her bloodstream was hot, all consuming but its heat was not a searing flash or self-consuming. It was not a limited rush of fire as a means to an end, but a flame that was an end in it of itself. It would not be spent in an hour, or a night. It expanded with each beat of her heart. It thrummed Helena's name through her arteries and veins bringing life to her soul.

"There is greater magic in things named," Myka whispered, desperately reaching out to clasp the writer's hand, the realization of what she was feeling terrifying and overwhelming but also exhilarating and liberating.

Helena turned her eyes back to the agent as she carefully slid next to Myka on the hammock, resting her head on the offered arm and shoulder. "Let us let intrigue and mystery play itself out," the writer pleaded, "at least for a while longer." Myka nodded, angling her body to better accommodate Helena's.

"Thank you for saving Artie," Myka watched the stars twinkling in the distance. "He won't say it for a while, but he's grateful, too."

"I do not begrudge the man his stubbornness, or his wariness to trust me. He is in all his rights to be so protective of the things he loves," Helena said levelly.

Myka grumbled in dissent, "He should at least give you a chance."

"You are like a dog with a bone: relentless," the writer smiled, heart warming at the show of fealty. "He has no reason to give me a chance," she continued, gravity entering her tone, "I am a murderer and a danger. Artie has more than enough reason to distrust me, even if I did save his life."

"That was over a hundred years ago," Myka argued vehemently, arm tightening reassuringly around Helena, "You've paid for whatever crime you committed against men who most assuredly deserved what you did to them."

"I speak of the agent that died because of me, not the men that killed Christina. I would kill them again without a thought, without remorse," Helena said voice pitched low and deadly remembering the vile creatures that killed her daughter. The absolute certainty and hate in Helena's words made the hair on the back of Myka's neck stand on edge.

"Time does not heal wounds, it exacerbates them, it deepens them, it makes them fester and poison the blood," the writer seemed to change topic, Myka only listened and let Helena say whatever she needed to say. "One hundred years has not lessened the pain, it has increased it. I am not whole, Myka. I am utterly broken," Helena's voice wavered, "Artie sees that and it scares him because it makes me unpredictable."

Myka turned without conscious thought wrapping the writer into a tight embrace. The love coursing through the agent pumped empathy to every molecule of her being, making her feel what the writer felt. She could feel the fissures of Helena's brokenness, the weight the writer bore on her soul, the heaviness of pain, the burn of guilt. The young woman's heart ached, fractured a bit, for Helena; the only comfort she could offer was understanding and silence.

"You make it better," Helena said very softly, as if the admission was made more real by the speaking of it. She held Myka tighter, feeling the empty places inside her soul slowly filling with the presence of the young woman. The agent was vanquishing the darkness that clouded her heart and mind; but having lived in that darkness for so long, it was disconcerting to find herself blinded and floundering in the light of Myka's belief in her. She was undeserving of it, and terrified of it, but the writer basked in it and held on tighter, even knowing that she would eventually destroy it. Helena could not help herself; and Myka flung herself headlong into it.

Holding onto the moment, laying a million miles from everyone, twined in each other, hearts in tandem rhythm, they spoke without words. They communicated in the whisper of touch, the tap of steady heartbeats, and the sigh of unspoken thoughts. And they stayed a while longer, suspended between the earth and the stars, night wrapping them tenderly in peaceful quiet.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Follows S2E10.

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**I Am Wearied Suddenly**

Helena watched the slow decent of the sun. The blazing hues of pinks, purples and oranges kissing the sky good night as they darkened into deep blues, violets and blacks.

Her mind traveled to the events that transpired a few hours previous: Myka and Pete sitting in her time machine, trusting her to bring them back to the present. Her mind stalled over the gut wrenching moment when she realized she could have failed them; she could have failed Myka.

_Like I failed Christina. _Something trembled inside the writer. The ground was shifting underneath her feet. Helena was lost in a maelstrom of emotion. She felt vulnerable, exposed; and she was not exactly sure why. Shuddering, the writer shifted uneasily on the window seat overlooking the meadow where Myka had shown her the stars. That quiet night seemed so long ago, eons separating that moment from the present.

Curling into herself, Helena pulled her knees tight against her chest, her arms wrapping around her, shins as she lowered her cheek to folded knees. Her eyes, lost in the horizon, witnessed the darkness overtaking the light. It was a gradual dimming of light as the bright sphere of the sun disappeared from view. It was a slow progression until suddenly there was no light to illuminate the world.

Mind wandering, Helena recalled the flutter of Myka's pulse underneath her fingers. The constant pulse reassuring in its repetitiveness; it encouraged her to find a solution, to save them. The whisper of desperation that coursed through her at the possibility of not being able to accomplish the task spurred the writer to plead with Artie; any pretense dropped in the face of possible failure. Helena allowed the overwhelming desire to save Myka shine through, honesty was the only thing that moved the hostile man.

Closing her eyes against the darkness surrounding her, the writer relived the moment when Myka and Pete opened their eyes. Helena had been ecstatic; she still was. The relief that coursed through her (through everyone present) was palpable. Yet, she had withdrawn from the celebratory revelry that always accompanied an averted tragedy. The writer was sitting alone in the dark attempting to figure out why she felt so shaken.

Opening her eyes to stare out into the blackness of night, Helena heaved a deep sigh her mind turning in ever changing directions. Rebecca she could not save. _Why would I want to return? _The words were simple yet they required the loss of something significant to be understood. Helena understood. The retired agent did not want to be saved; she wanted to die on her own terms, in the arms of the man she loved so dearly. All she desired was one last moment of happiness.

Hiding her face in her knees Helena expelled a frustrated breath through her nostrils, she could not change the past. Though, god how she had tried. To the point of obsession. To the point of madness. To the point of defeat. No matter what she did, she had continually failed. Each attempt breaking an irreparable part of her soul.

_Why am I still here? Why does it all matter?_ The questions plagued her incessantly. Her time machine sat defunct in a clearly labeled section in the Warehouse. All she had to do was construct the proper parts and access the Warehouse. She had security clearance and the appropriate tools for the job. She could fix her machine and spend a day with her daughter, and not return. She could die on her own terms; finally be at peace.

Myka's smiling face flashed in the writer's mind. Myka's name resounded in Helena's heart; a heart that was beating a staccato rhythm with the young woman's name as tempo and source. Helena was well and truly trapped. She was changing.

Myka was transforming a century of hate, pain, and guilt. She was undoing what time had exacerbated. The young woman was laying balm on wounds that had festered until her healing presence. She was helping Helena carry a burden: the weight of an eight year old child.

A light knock pulled the brooding writer from her thoughts. Helena considered ignoring the intrusion but the knock came again, more insistent. She called a quiet _come in_ before turning back to the view out her window. The subtle shift in the air, the frisson of awareness that danced up her spine, informed Helena that Myka had entered the room. The writer heard the click of the door latching closed, then the measured footsteps that led the agent deeper into the dark room, and finally the dip of the bed when the young woman sat to accompany her in her darkness.

Myka turned on no lights, preferring the soft light of the moon that beautifully illuminated the writer seated by the window. And she made no overtures at conversation, innately understanding Helena would speak when she found the words to express what she was feeling. Myka only desired to be available for whatever fallout was about to take place.

"We almost failed," Helena could not look at Myka as she admitted it. "I almost failed," she repeated quietly, the words bouncing loudly in the silent room. The voices in the back of the writer's mind whispered of past failures.

"But, you didn't," Myka reminded, "I'm right here. I'm alive."

"Rebecca isn't," the soft voice carried over to Myka's ears. Before the agent could protest the point she heard Helena's next words and they broke her heart, "Christina isn't."

Myka stood slowly and closed the short distance between them. Helena turned to look at the approaching woman, both comforted and distressed by her presence. The moment Myka reached out and touched her, however, the writer felt her fears still and the knot of worry lodged in stomach ease.

The agent pulled the writer up into a tight embrace. And, she simply held her. The minutes passed in silence.

"It's getting late," Myka's voice was soft when it finally pierced the silence. Helena instinctively held the young woman tighter; she did not want her to leave. "Let's go to bed," the soft voice continued, easing the writer's fear. Myka was staying with her through the night. The covers were quickly pulled aside and the women slid in close to one another. There was no awkwardness at the newness of the situation. The women gravitated to one another, body parts tangling until they were both settled comfortably.

Tonight there were no kisses. No caress of lips to quiet the heat that burned in their veins. No physical expression of pent up desire. There was only the embrace of a loved one. There was only the peace that came from accepting the solace of a kindred soul. And that intimate connection was what steadied and calmed the fears whispering about Helena's head in a constant buzz. Myka presence kept the monsters at bay.

Curling around Myka's steadfast hold, Helena laid her head on a soft chest, her ear nestled against the agent's sternum. And the writer listened to the sure and steady beat of Myka's heart.

"Tell me about Christina," Helena could hear the echoed rumble of Myka's request expand through the agent's chest.

The writer knew that the agent was not asking for the details of her child's death; or even the events that happened afterward. The young woman whose heartbeat calmly pumped trust and understanding was doing what no single person had been able to do since 1899. Myka was giving Helena freedom to talk about the vibrant, life filled memories of her daughter. She was not asking for the writer to explore her pain and hurt. She was not seeking to know the breaks and fractures that riddled the writer's heart. She was asking, with innocent curiosity, for Helena to remember happier times.

"She had the brightest smile," Helena spoke after several heartbeats, her own lips quirking in reminiscence. The mother's lilting voice held such pride as she regaled Myka with countless moments. The stories poured from the writer in a continual litany of a mother's love. First words, first steps, first scrapes, first questions.

The writer's voice halted momentarily as she contemplated sharing a memory she kept close to her heart. Taking a deep breath, she decided to share all she had left of Christina with Myka. The writer's voice took on a wistful tone as she continued. "When Christina was three, going on four," Helena smiled sadly at the remembered exuberance of the toddler, "she was just beginning to grasp the concept of numbers. She could count to an amazing total of five." Myka smiled imagining the child applying the number five to everything she thought important.

"So, of course, when she wanted a lot of something," Helena confirmed Myka's assumption, "she would ask for five of whatever it was she wanted." Helena paused and took a quick breath, her voice becoming slightly strained. "I recall, one day I had to correct her for some misdeed she committed. So, I did," the writer cleared her throat, "though, it broke my heart to do so. I don't even remember now what it is she had done."

Helena sighed and held Myka tighter. "Regardless, like any child her age, she took it dreadfully seriously and was awfully somber after the correction. I could not bear to see her so distraught," the writer squeezed her eyes shut, still able to clearly recall Christina's little face crumble, "So I gathered her up in my arms, held her close, and told her I loved her to five." Helena felt her throat begin to constrict. "To my great dismay, my little Christina seemed to deflate completely in my arms before she started sobbing inconsolably." The writer paused and tried to force words out through the tightening of her throat. Her eyes burned. "I had no idea what I had done to put her in such a state. Before I could think of how to ask what I had done wrong, she pierced me through the heart with her little whispered words." Helena felt tears escape her eyes. "With tears flowing down her face, she looked at me and hiccupped before saying, in a heartbroken voice, 'But mummy, I love you without numbers.'"

The agent only listened and held the writer tighter as she felt wetness seep through her shirt and soak her chest; Myka doubted Helena even realized how hard she was crying. She ran soothing fingers through Helena's hair, feeling tears silently course down her own cheeks at the muffled sobs coming from the writer.

After a long while, Helena fell silent in Myka's arms. The writer tried to recall more. She tried to focus on specifics and details, but they were slipping her grasp. Helena's heart squeezed painfully when the memories faded under the opaque filter of her mind. Her memories were so old now that recalling them to present mind was like looking at a hundred year old photo, the edges were washing out. And with the fading of specifics, the pain of looking at her memories was only a dull ache and not a sharp, stabbing, breath stealing dagger. She could now cry over her child in the safety of loving arms and not feel as if she was betraying Christina's memory.

Feeling the evening out of Myka's breathing as the young woman's chest expanded rhythmically under her, Helena realized the hard edges of her anger were disappearing. They were being replaced by something equally as ravaging in its intensity: love. In her mind's eye, Helena could picture soft, curly hair splayed out across her pillow, green eyes covered by closed eyelids, face relaxed in the peace of repose. Myka had stayed to keep her monsters at bay; to give her a semblance of peace in the midst of pain and loss.

The writer was at point of decision. Two diverging roads lay before her; the paths as different as night and day. And with the pain of the past loosening its icy hold on her heart, Helena felt no sense of remorse in taking the first tentative steps in the path that ended with Myka.

It was still night, for many hours yet. But at sunrise, light would overtake the darkness. Helena listened to Myka's steady, strong, sure heartbeat and waited for the breaking of the dawn.


End file.
